Its beauty best expressed
in its guttural

musicality
and that's how I want to remember it

as an ugly sounding place
where you could drink

cream soda
spouted from an elephant's trunk

an escape

Whit Howland © 2020

This stuff will **** you
if you let it

the silver bullet
I search for

or the daggers
to drive  

through the heart
of the matter

you keep asking

is this going to be
my thing

what will bring me
to the precipice

Whit Howland © 2020

we circle the drain
and yet we fiddle

a jet trails off into
the distance

its noise lags far
behind

we sleep through
the afternoon

to the soundtrack
of our lives

Whit Howland © 2020

It's a cozy arrangement
we both share

they stand in their glazed
earthen jar

never thirsty and never
dying

and my end of the bargain

ignoring the pesky little fact
that they were never alive



Whit Howland © 2020

Staccato
chirpy
if we focus on the
song

and the music
the song
we must
even

though
it's loud
and splits the
ear it's

something
we cannot
afford to
ignore

Whit Howland © 2020

Horns blare
as cars  
rub bumpers

trying
to connect
into one long train

we'll be okay
if we focus
on what's concrete

and just drive
forward
and make it home

Whit Howland © 2020

such as the casual wayward
glance

across the room
then

eyes locked

like padlocks
to a bridge in Paris


Whit Howland © 2020

like cotton *****
or cotton swabs

we float away
on puffy white clouds

we disconnect
no

we unplug

whit howland © 2020

Please don't ask me
to be luxuriant

what I see
is what you'll get

my eye washes away the color
and strips

the world to its naked
essence

because life and survival
depends on thinking clearly

with an unobstructed
vision

Whit Howland © 2020

It's about time
and how we are almost
out of it

and also how our days
slip through our fingers
like sand in an hourglass

we can never come back from it
nor can I return to you
what was lost in the maelstrom

but I won't bore you with platitudes
about moving forward
or how life goes on

it doesn't
at least not in the way
it used to

Whit Howland © 2020

When I was younger
I might've said rotting

but I've learned that gives
a certain impression

like maybe one of a decaying
barn or farmhouse

and I'd hate to paint and/or
for you all

to get the wrong picture

it's been a good life
no I didn't say perfect

I said good

Whit Howland © 2020

That sunny summer
feeling the wooden slats

as we were pulled
in a rickshaw

along the boardwalk
awash

in the human din
the crashing waves

and wonky midway music
as we locked eyes

and marched in our own
parade

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm sorry

I wish I had an answer
but if I did

I'd be a brain trust

and

uneasy is the head
that wears the crown of thorns

glasses clinking
a drink slides down to the end

a blue brocaded curtain
ripples

where did I come from

I've been here all along

I'll sit over there if you like

what time is it
the windows are blacked out

so

it might be morning

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm so tired
of the mental chatter

the clutter the spatter
of spilled paint

it's a peace I seek
and order

over quiet but

nothing forced

just the structure
of natural patterns
color

and a staff of musical
notes

Whit Howland © 2020

and for lack
of a better metaphor

I will call it a
magnet

not one shaped like
a horse shoe

you might see in a
cartoon

but more of the refrigerator
variety

say
a rubber bumblebee

to remind me of the sting
of bad choices

Whit Howland © 2020

What purpose do I
serve

what is my function

do my legs fold out
and can people rest

their dinner
their drinks on my
stomach

I have a voice but
what's the use without
a talent or

something I'm good at

the more I sit here and cogitate about it
the more my mind

jumbles things like
black and white

and with a sweeping stroke
paints the sky
gray

Whit Howland © 2020

no i did not see your
note

but like when i put on
a new shirt

it was the pins
it's always been the pins


Whit Howland © 2020

An art exhibit
for the mind

with
works inspired

by mostly those
with places to go

things to do
and people to see

but we're not losers
or misfits

we're here to put
voice

to their actions
and speak truth

to their power

Whit Howland © 2020

Down below
a lighthouse rusts
it's

not sad just
getting on in years

if there was an edge
of Earth this would
be it although

it is not the end but
much
like the beginning

and clearly seen

as a globe spinning
on its axis

Whit Howland © 2020

Why I never punctuate
is a poem in itself
and might speak very well of my
lack of patience and how I prefer
there to be few if no stops
along the way
like a silver comet or a bullet train

and that my friends and fellow poets
is sweet milk squeezed
from the source
of your choice


Whit Howland © 2020

The fiery exhale
of a dragon

or the rollercoaster
we rode

and what a lovely ride
I often think about

how it could have lasted
longer

but then I have to remind
myself

not to second guess
perfection

Whit Howland © 2020

We often think
quiet

thoughts
of the tiniest things

contrary
to the loud voices

in our head

YELLING

NO THAT IS NOT
WHAT THE SIGN SAYS

it reads

GO BIG

AND INSPIRE AWE

BE A KING

OR A QUEEN

Whit Howland © 2020

They're the stuff
we shoot for
the lights that twinkle
like dare I say

no, I won't, but I will say
dreams come and dreams go

even the ones made of cheap
slick shiny gold material
that taste bad
when you lick them

Whit Howland © 2020

Focus on the comb
in a jar

suspended in icy
blue

gleaming chrome
red nogahyde chairs

and glinting silver
shears

she lives

he lives

I still live

for something that is ours
and only

ours


Whit Howland © 2020

it was so very hot
today

but i mowed the grass
anyway

all the while
fighting

the stinging sweat
that burned my eyes

Whit Howland © 2020

With a steady hand
I paint I draw I write

by the
numbers

I am careful
maybe too

cautious
not to color outside
of the lines

so little time

and I am constantly
looking
over my shoulder

Whit Howland © 2020

Coda
or passage of time

and a rose by any other name
now brittle and dry

we well with tears
mostly sad

but sometimes aghast
at new beginnings

Whit Howland © 2020

would not there be
a dry eye in the house
there wouldn't

this morning
cloud cover
dull and gray

it almost threatened rain
but
with some polish

and a little elbow grease
we shined it up
like silver

Whit Howland © 2020

Out here the still water does not run
deep

it is clear and shallow
and we can see the forest

for the trees
so don't worry my dear

getting lost for you
and I

is not never was
and never will be an option

Whit Howland © 2020

The poem
I write over
and over
the dream
I have every
other night but
I'm not a crazy
person expecting
a different outcome
I'm just an optimist
and I can cede that
I might be a fool
who just hopes for
and wants the best
for everyone

Whit Howland © 2020

Do not confuse me
with someone who's in need

or want

I could've had them
any day

and maybe I should
but then again I shouldn't

pale squishy
and somewhat ****

who'd eat them anyway

Whit Howland © 2020

Solitary
and alone he

sits

on the curb with his back to the red

brick

buildings with the morning sun chasing the shadows
and making them go far and away

Whit Howland © 2020

He plays in a rain of paint globules
on a canvas

full of brooding mood
and melancholy music

heard only in our minds

busy
straining for meaning

when they should be saying
focus

on the strumming fingers
thinking far beyond the cloth

Whit Howland © 2020

I took a risk today
and trimmed the stems

on a bouquet
of roses

then I put them
in a vase I filled with water

before presenting
them

to my wife
thus proving

the poetry is in the making
of

and not in the actual
pudding itself

Whit Howland © 2020

Dear ???

twenty years have past
and it looks like you haven't
seen a wrinkle

nor have you skipped
a beat

silver microphone
gold saxophone and a  blue
rippling velvet curtain

don't fret any
we were just kids then
even at thirty-six

Whit Howland © 2020

and I only know
I'm there

because I'm told
I'm there

waiting for a bus
I'll never catch

a room I can never finish
packing

or a feast  I'll never
eat

each night the same things
just served
on a different platter

Whit Howland © 2020

he moves through
the mouse maze
with a neutral

expression
on his face
dodging

things that swing
punch and squirt
not

clumsily
nor effortlessly
but with average skill

and
at an average
speed

being just enough
of who he has to be
to keep

plodding along


Whit Howland © 2020

A stiff wooden arm
with metal fingers

which flex and
dutifully bend

and we count on it
as an effective tool

to clean up the mess
the yard

as we bag pile
and process

then properly
dispose

of all the frail twigs
and leaves that are dead

Whit Howland © 2020

chirp is the word
for the sound it makes

most say it sings
while for others  

it spills the beans
we claw and peck for meaning

a few call themselves poets
everyone fights

for freedom

it flies


Whit Howland © 2020

It must be my reward
for getting older

memories no longer burn
like an angry sun
or bite

like a bitter lime

instead
they cascade

through the body
massaging every muscle
so now

when I hear the clack
clack clack
of a typewriter

it's no longer a jack hammer
trying to crack  
my tortoise shell

but a player piano
with spirited
ghostly keys



Whit Howland © 2020

we search
and search and

search

for a voice
anywhere

we can find it
be it

on billboard signs

advertising
aftershave

nursery rhymes
knock

knock jokes
we throw

spit wads
against the wall

hoping someone
will hear us

and that we are
distinct

Whit Howland © 2020

I'm watching

the rubbed charcoal gray
being

rinsed away by darker
then
whiter lighter blue

to be over taken by
the pink and orange

of a technicolor sunrise

Whit Howland © 2020

A piece of art or
artifact

the pair of hedge clippers
dangles from a hook

on a pegboard in the
garage

and my hands are behind my
back

staring at it like it's
in a museum

as I consider it's color composition
the sharpness of the blades

and I come up with

nothing
unlike the red wheelbarrow

which coincidentally
has a flat tire

nothing much depends on these stinking
hedge clippers

or me

Whit Howland © 2020

What matters most
is

surprise

not their color

it's that they go
with me

when I leave

another empty
earthen *** to fill
again

Whit Howland © 2020

maybe a name for a man
who

like many others
is

a smudge of gray paint
in a ubiquitous landscape

and deserves a dozen
flowers

of his choosing

just for showing up
day after day

even on those
when all of his synapses

screamed at him
to hang up

the gloves

Whit Howland © 2020

My face
it disappears

then reappears

when the train's windows
flash

by my face

as I fumble
for pocket change

a thought

and then a poem

Whit Howland © 2020

I miss it
the sense of wonder

of inspiration

to run a string
from house to house

two coffee cans
on each end

and

our muted voices
trumpeting

through the tin
saying

HELLO

wanting to know
if there’s life

out there
somewhere
beyond

the stars
past the moon

Whit Howland © 2020

Thundering hooves
a sheen of sweat

grunting

and it seems only yesterday for you and me
that the sky was the limit

and every night was a victory lap
replete with a garland of flowers

Whit Howland © 2020

i love early fall
the time just inside
of september

the leaves still green
but there's finally a bit
of blush

in their complexion
that later will turn
to a pallor


Whit Howland © 2020

Lately when I dream
there's just a lot of blue

sometimes it shimmers
like in a pool

other times
it hangs like a velvet

curtain on a stage

I'm here at this hour
on this earth

to ponder what's
absurd

the things in the mind
that need to be cleared

like junk in the attic
but before we toss

we revisit

this is one of those
things

I roped you in so
why don't you put

your feet up

and stay


Whit Howland © 2020